


His Sweater

by Ranger_of_Estel



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Len is still gone, Post Destiny, Sara and Mick bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranger_of_Estel/pseuds/Ranger_of_Estel
Summary: Leonard Snart is gone; but Sara can still find comfort in the things that were once his. Little reminders of the man who had helped her feel grounded when the world spun out beneath her.





	His Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for Tumblr's ficcingcaptaincanary's: “You know, Gideon could just replicate one of those for you.”

* * *

 

               After the Oculus she finds herself in his room, fingers trailing along the desk and bed before she slides down against it to cry. She doesn’t sleep that night, just curls up with his parka clutched against her chest. And then after she finds out about Laurel, her world fractures again, her own quarters remind her far too much of what she’s lost. So she makes her way to his room, curling up on the bed and surrounding herself with the scent of him. It helps, and she finally falls asleep with tears still on her cheeks.

                Later when they need the extra space she offers her room, saying she could use the change anyway. Mick offers her a sideways glance when she moves into his partner’s old quarters; noting how she keeps his coats in the closet and the deck of cards that never seem to leave the desk. When she can’t sleep, or they’ve come back from a particularly rough mission she’ll slip into one of his sweaters instead of her nightclothes. She practically swims in it, but it’s soft and warm and reminds her of him.

                Eventually she has a favorite, and long after his scent is washed away she slips it on to read books or nap for the short periods she allows herself to rest. It’s blue, knitted and made of something super soft. It’s stretched with time, reaching nearly her knees from where she tugs at the hem; the sleeves rolled or pushed back at her wrists so she can do things with her hands.

                It’s late one night when she trails through the ship to get a drink from the galley, mixing up a packet of cocoa and smiling to herself when she remembers his voice complaining about the powdered version of the drink.

                “You know, Gideon could probably replicate one of those for you.” She jumps slightly, turning to see a bleary-eyed Raymond begin rummaging for a mug. When she just offers a puzzled look, he motions toward the sweater. “That one looks like it’s seen better days, I’m sure she could make a new one for you.” He frowns slightly, “And maybe one that fits a little better, that looks about four sizes too big for you.”

                Instinctively she clutches at the spare material near her hands, “Ah, well –” she wants to tell him that Gideon can’t replicate the scent of mint that somehow still clings to the collar, or the little place on the shoulder where a tear had been expertly stitched by hand. Gideon can’t mimic the softness that only comes from years of wear, or the comfort of having something that belonged to him. But she doesn’t, because she could never find the courage to tell the others about whatever she and Len might have been. So she settles for, “I like it baggy, more comfortable for the evenings.”

                “Mm,” he nods, moving toward the replicator for a drink. “I guess I can understand that.”

                She returns to the study, legs pulled up in the chair and warm mug clutched in her hands. “Hey Blondie,” Mick steps into the space, eyeing the spread of maps and articles across the desk.

                “Hey Mick,” she offers a small smile, “You can’t sleep either?”

                He shakes his head, “Been still too long, thought I’d help.” He motions before her. When he steps closer there’s a flicker of a smile as he looks down at her. “Boss would have had a fit, seeing that dumb sweater all stretched out like that.”

                “Well he shouldn’t have left them behind,” she replies half-hearted, lifting the mug to her lips while trying to blink back tears. After a pause she sighs, “It’s been almost a year Mick.” Her voice shakes slightly as she looks up at the big man.

                He nods, “I know,” he walks over, sinking into one of the other chairs. “He’d be proud of you Birdie.” Her head jerks up at the former pet name, but Mick’s eyes are wandering the study. “And if anyone was going to be around to remember him, he’d be glad it was you.”

                “Us,” she replies, “He’d be glad it was us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially I'm still just bitter that we never got to see her mourning him. That we never saw her learning to cope without the one person she'd learned to trust, who believed in her. And you can't tell me she didn't still look for that comfort, even without him there.


End file.
